


many colours

by corvidcookie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Multi, bit of romance, bit of smut, bit of tattoo worship, tattoo!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3285908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidcookie/pseuds/corvidcookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes likes to think he knows everything. Everything really *important*, anyway. </p><p>John Watson--and some rather interesting inkwork that lives beneath his collection of comfortable cable-knit jumpers--has the potential to change that assumption.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. evening, interrupted

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime pre-Reichenbach.
> 
> I'm always game for beta readers or co-writers, internet lovelies! This is the first time I've gathered up enough courage to post my work here, so I'd love all the advice I can get. xx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which texts are exchanged, and an evening is shortened.

11:45 p.m.  
_You’re really just being quite terribly insensitive._

11:48 p.m.  
What?

11:50 p.m.  
_Do you sincerely desire for me to send that message again, or is that what you’d label “sarcastic disbelief”?_

11:51 p.m.  
Kindly sod off.

11:53 p.m.  
I was more shocked that you would care about how sensitively I was treating you.

11:54 p.m.  
_Wrong._

12:00 a.m.  
…How am I being insensitive, Sherlock?

12:01 a.m.  
_You never told me you had a tattoo._  
  
12:06 a.m.  
Oh. That.

12:08 a.m.  
_Yes, that. Or those, more likely._

12:14 a.m.  
Cor, Sherlock. How did you even see my — never mind.

12:18 a.m.  
_Yesterday, crime scene, tube station. You were reaching up a fair way to look at the way that particularly violent blood spatter had hit the top of that hideous movie poster. Unless you’ve recently acquired sunburn of an unusually rare colour and shape—and you haven’t, clearly I’d have known—that was the obvious answer. Obviously._

12:21 a.m.  
Christ.

12:23 a.m.  
_No, it didn’t appear to be religious. And I hadn’t pegged you for the type to inscribe religious images upon your person._

12:25 a.m.  
Sherlock. Stop. You’re doing it again.

12:26 a.m.  
_See? Insensitive._

12:29 a.m.  
….

12:34 a.m.  
_John?_

12:38 a.m.  
Yes, Sherlock?

12:39 a.m.  
_Come home._

12:45 a.m.  
Now?

12:46 a.m.  
_Yes._

12:57 a.m.  
I’ve only just got to the pub with Stamford. He’s ordered us drinks.

12:59 a.m.  
_Fine. Never mind._

1:03 a.m.  
_…please._

1:05 a.m.  
Alright. I should be able to foist him off. Greg’s just got here as well. Please have a good reason for this.

1:06 a.m.  
_My reasons are never anything less than excellent._

*****


	2. frustrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock destroys a fair bit of furniture, spectacularly fails to make tea, and John is discomfited.

He’d attempted to be patient; really, he had. Sherlock had only paced around the flat thrice (not counting the spur-of-the-moment redecorating - how was he to know that both armchairs couldn’t fit properly up the staircase? Clearly, John should’ve been there to assist when his own blasted armchair had decided to tumble down the stairs and smash into the door; John had only himself to blame there) and was currently stretched full-length upon the divan, fingers twitching irritably as he watched the clock. It had been a full hour, at the very least. Silver-blue eyes closed as Sherlock allowed himself an impatient sigh, tugging his threadbare dressing gown more tightly around himself.

“Shit, _fuck_ , bugger it all!”

A satisfyingly loud crash, accompanied by a few (quite over-dramatized, in Sherlock’s opinion) thumps, resounded in the foyer. Sherlock’s lips quirked upwards as he quickly shunted himself into a more dignified position, picking up a nearby stack of papers and idly rifling through them. He glanced up with utmost innocence as John staggered into the room, brushing splintered remains of armchair from his trousers.

“Oh, John. You’re home. Excellent.”

Darting back behind his papers, Sherlock found himself inordinately pleased to note that John had obviously been in rather a frantic rush. His cheeks were flushed ( _pleasantly, he’s always so eager to please_ ), sandy hair mussed, and his jumper a touch askew. A bit of scarlet inking peeked over the waistband of John’s trousers, momentarily distracting Sherlock from the continuation of his previous thought. He’d caught a glimpse of the same stunning colour earlier that day, and had been maddeningly intrigued ever since. John, tattooed? _His_ John? How was this something he’d never noticed before? They’d been flatmates for well over a year, but… well. This was something new, something... _unexpected_.

Sherlock had learned early on that, if nothing else, John was an absolutely horrific liar. There were far too many tells; the slight flush creeping up his cheeks, the downward shift of his eyes (then overcompensated by far too much direct eye contact), the copious instances of throat-clearing. He’d never been able to keep anything from Sherlock for more than a few moments; which is why the mystery of the hidden tattoo had so fascinated ( _intrigued, interested... aroused? No. Absolutely not_ ) Sherlock. He noticed _everything_ \- that was his profession, after all. To notice things; things that no one else ever did. How had he not noticed… _this_?

John shifted in front of him impatiently, and Sherlock’s eyes fastened upon the slight, graceful curve of John’s hip - he could see only that, and an inch or two of scarlet-and-gold scrollwork that peeked out, curling around his hip and arcing towards the small of John’s back. He didn’t like to bandy the word about, but what Sherlock could see was… beautiful. Lovely, the hue accentuating John’s natural complexion. What was it? Were there more? Where, when, how…?

“Well? Are you bleeding? Have you lit the drapes afire again? Sherlock, that’d be the second time this month, and I really don’t think that--” John trailed off in lieu of the dazed look etched across Sherlock’s features. “What? If you’re working up a smart-arsed remark, please let it be known henceforth that you will be taking full responsibility for the lumberyard that now exists in our foyer. Or was it some sort of warning signal? Booby trap? We do have a knocker, you know. And--” His eyes skimmed the room’s chaos briefly, not without a touch of warm amusement. “And at least two pistols, a blasted _sword_ , and three… _three_! fire pokers.” John tugged a splinter from his trousers ruefully, leaning his hip against the end of the divan at Sherlock’s feet. “You’re quiet, and it's bloody unlike you. Out with it.”

Slightly stung by the traces of amusement in John’s tone, Sherlock drew himself up to his full height. He noted that John’s eyes flicked down the length of his body for several extraordinarily long seconds before rising to his face; and judging by the slight draft Sherlock felt, he’d most likely forgotten to put… much of anything at all else on beneath whichever dressing gown he'd thrown on.

 _Good. Let him be uncomfortable_. Smug petulance. _It does rather serve him right_.

All the same, he twitched his dressing gown closed irritably. Ignoring the question, he crossed the room with a few long strides and set about making a cup of tea. Rather.. he went through the motions of making a cuppa. He wasn’t entirely sure where the… the tea paraphernalia was, and stood rather ineffectively in front of the cupboard, random spoon in hand.

Sherlock absolutely despised _not_ knowing things. Not knowing was an absolute affront, a slight that cut him to the quick. Not knowing was quite simple to remedy, though. And this - somehow, this was different. This was not knowing _John_ ; the one person that he felt he understood above anyone else. Ever. Why would he conceal something so… well, not mundane. Nothing about John was or would ever be _mundane_ , he mused. And there was something about the thought of John Watson, sans comfortable jumper, slim and chiseled torso covered in inkwork of varying degrees of intricacy, that… _excited_ Sherlock. In a visceral, unfamiliar way that made him deeply and wildly unsure of himself.

“Here. Happy now?”

Sherlock started slightly at the sound of John’s voice -- much closer behind him now -- barely registering the odd hitch ( _anxiety? exasperation? fear?_ ) that lay beneath his normal speaking tone. He blinked in annoyance, as he clearly recalled asking John at least seven times that week alone to please stop jumping out at him when he was thinking, he had quite enough to be going on with, thank you. And--

_Ah._

The ever-present and deliciously cream-coloured jumper lay puddled in a soft heap at Sherlock’s feet, obviously tossed there moments before. His eyes fixed upon it for what felt like an eternity of small, echoing minutes.   
_  
**shock** (transitive verb)_

_a  :  to strike with surprise, terror, horror, or disgust_

_b  :  to cause to undergo a physical or nervous shock_

_c  :  to subject to the action of an electrical discharge_  
  
Through a fairly substantial mist of... of _something_ , he realised that all of the above had the potential to be quite sufficient.  
  
A shadow fell across Sherlock’s face at long last, and he raised his gaze from the jumper with excruciating deliberation. The low lights -- just a lamp and a few guttering candles -- in the living room illuminated John from behind as he came to a stop and leaned against the kitchen doorframe. His posture bespoke utmost nonchalance, but almost too much so; an element of forced casualness was threaded throughout his demeanor. He’d clearly been drinking; but not nearly enough to be incoherent or sloppy. **  
**

And John was absolutely, unequivocally without his jumper.

*****


	3. resignation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John makes a rousing attempt at a night out.

It had been one _hell_ of a bloody long night, in John Watson’s opinion.   
  
First, there’d been the utter fiasco meeting up with Lestrade and Stamford early on in the evening. Both men were perfectly lovely chaps, but ridiculously unreliable when it came to affairs not related to their professions. John had walked to four (four!) different pubs before he found the one they’d decided on at the very last minute (and had both forgotten to text him about). Then Greg had forgotten his wallet, and kept the rest of the small group waiting for a good hour while he went to fetch it.   
  
John had been profoundly disappointed in the wait staff there, as well. A fair number of gorgeous women; and a few good-looking blokes--he was certainly capable of appreciating a handsome man, was he not?  
  
Unfortunately, the objects of his interest were either attached _(_ rings, constantly pulling out mobiles to text, heart-shaped jewelry _… hellfire and damnation, Sherlock. hellfire and damnation_ ) or very obviously unimpressed by the halfhearted attempts he’d made at engaging them in conversation. When, at long last, he felt like he’d found a likely companion for the evening -- redhead, maddeningly wicked laugh, her eyes blazing coppery sparks in his direction every time she passed by -- the text had arrived.   
  
11:45 p.m.  
_You’re really just being quite terribly insensitive._  

He sighed. John hadn’t the slightest shadow of doubt as to whom the message belonged; who else would send a vaguely cryptic, possibly accusatory, and definitely passive-aggressive message with absolutely no preamble at 11:45 in the evening? After he’d been out of the flat for barely half an hour, at that?  
  
And… bollocks. To stay, and take his chances at the pub for another few hours? Or home, to face a tempestuous Sherlock who seemed on the verge of launching a full-scale interrogation?  
  
The “please” had gotten him in the end, though. John hadn’t been able to able to keep the corners of his lips from turning up as he’d read that one. Sherlock Holmes, asking _nicely_ for something?

 _Home it was, then._   
  
John could practically _feel_ his flatmate’s impatience through the mobile.  It was a tangible thing, Sherlock’s impatience; and though John was often irritated by it, he couldn’t always help but find it somewhat…  engaging.   
  
“Charming. Charming is the word you’ve been looking for, doll.”   
  
John glanced up, startled by the sudden brush of silken hair against his cheek and a honeyed voice in his ear.   
  
The redhead perched on the edge of the bar next to him, her cleavage peeking amply from her low-cut blouse. He wasn’t really the type to blatantly stare, but she’d positioned herself (likely consciously, judging from her mischievous smile) so that her breasts nearly brushed against his cheek as she leaned forward over the pub stool where he sat. Staring was… perilous, and difficult to avoid.   
  
Risking a backwards glance to his table (and finding Stamford and Lestrade quite happily engaged in debate over the ongoing football match, complete with waving arms and spilled drinks), John returned his attention to the woman before him, all sultry smiles and tumbling curls.   
  
“You’re certainly that, love. Could I buy you a -- oh, damn.” He broke off mid-sentence, lopsided smile fading as his mobile buzzed insistently in hand.   
  
John didn’t have to look, not really. He knew. But looked nevertheless.   
  
She pouted. With extreme gusto. Clearly unused to being put off, she moved (flounced, rather; John didn’t know real people could flounce until this very moment) along to a different part of the pub, where she was immediately surrounded by several interested parties. The cloying scent of violets -- he hadn’t noticed that until now -- slowly dissipated around him.   
  
Rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily, John rose, waved a brief farewell to his companions at the table, and shrugged into his overcoat. It was a bit chilly out, and though he’d enjoyed the brisk walk earlier, he didn’t quite fancy it again after dark. Especially now that he was slightly tipsy (there was little else to do while waiting for the much-anticipated Greg), had missed most of the football match, and was going home -- alone -- to heaven knew what. A cab would have to do.   
  
As he waited outside, John stared down at his mobile. The conversation with Sherlock was open on the small screen; he hadn’t known what else to say, really. He was still somewhat in a state of shock; just the idea that Sherlock had been so.. bothered? Intrigued? _Whatever_ it was, by the idea that he, John Watson, could possibly have tattoos.   
  
Or was it just that he’d never _told_ Sherlock about them? Because, he assured himself for the third time that evening, Sherlock really had never asked.   
  
1:06 a.m.  
_My reasons are never anything less than excellent._ ****

Unbidden, a prickling thrill of anticipation rushed through him; lessening the sting of disappointment in the evening’s progress thus far.  
  
_Point._ **  
  
*******


	4. deliberations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which decisions of some weight are made.

The flat appeared completely dark from the outside, and John squinted at his wristwatch as he tried to make out the time. He winced as the time blinked up at him unforgivingly -- it was nearly an hour later than he’d anticipated.   
  
_Bloody terrible cabbies._ Apparently, they were to be a recurring theme throughout his life.     
  
He wondered if Sherlock had given him up and gone to bed; there were no apparent or immediate signs of life. John attempted to let himself into the flat somewhat quietly, but his hands couldn’t quite be arsed to make key and lock meet. After several anxiety-inducing moments in which he allowed a few choice and truly profound expletives to make their appearances, the lock finally gave way.   
  
_Christ._ Had he really had that much to drink?   
  
Then again, Greg had taken one searing hell of a while getting to that bloody pub.   
  
More expletives -- some of these admirable enough to make any number of veteran sailors blush, some decidedly less creative -- shattered the silence of the flat as John stumbled his way across the foyer. Splinters of wood skittered across the floor as he moved; and this led directly to John spectacularly tripping over what was, possibly, some sort of free-floating upholstery.   
  
Was that.. was that his _armchair?_ _His_ armchair?   
  
“Oh, John. You’re home. Excellent.” Extreme nonchalance from the living room.   
  
Lifting his eyes to the heavens for a moment (granted, a long moment; in which he implored benevolent gods to please, _please_ just grant him a bit more patience), John took a deep breath and stepped into the room.   
  
Sherlock hadn’t appeared to have moved since John had gone out, earlier in the evening; though, John supposed, he had to have changed into his dressing gown at some point.   
  
Even so, divan-bound Sherlock in a tattered dressing gown cut a far more elegant figure than many a lesser man would in an expensive suit.

Divan-bound and…. perfectly fine, apparently. John pressed his lips together for a moment to stifle the mighty sigh that threatened to break loose. He edged up a bit in order to angle a glimpse past the fistful of papers Sherlock was enshrouding himself with; lips twitching as he noticed that the majority of the papers were upside-down.   
  
“Well? Are you bleeding? Have you lit the drapes afire again? Sherlock, that’d be the second time this month, and I really don’t think that--” John stopped. Took a breath. Gathered himself, as it was clear Sherlock wasn’t paying attention in the slightest. “What? If you’re working up a smart-arsed remark, please let it be known henceforth that you will be taking full responsibility for the lumberyard that now exists in our foyer. Or was it some sort of warning signal? Booby trap? We do have a knocker, you know. And--” (He paused for dramatic effect, said effect was completely ignored--) “And at least two pistols, a blasted _sword,_ and three… _three!_ fire pokers.”   
  
The sigh could be suppressed no longer. John gave in, enjoying the feeling of righteous exasperation immensely. “You’re quiet, and it's bloody unlike you. Out with it.”   
  
_There_ we go. With a scattering of papers, Huffy Sherlock had appeared; rising from the divan in several dressing-gown-flaps of indignant glory.   
  
He was also completely and rather magnificently nude, and hadn’t made any sort of effort to tie his sash.   
  
Immediately, colour flooded into John’s face. He could feel the heat of it, which added to his already quite considerable embarrassment. Where was he to... _look?_ He couldn’t bring himself to meet Sherlock’s gaze; he wasn’t sure he knew what his own expression was saying, let alone Sherlock’s.   
  
Sherlock would know, though.   
  
Opening and closing his hands awkwardly, John opened his mouth to speak -- dropped his hands to his sides, shifted his weight, coughed. It wasn’t as if he’d never seen a naked man before, after all. His years in the service had certainly seen to that. Sometimes, it was unavoidable. And yet…   
  
The idea that Sherlock was standing just within arm’s length of himself, completely bare beneath the tattered old silk of the gown…. it was oddly thrilling. Wildly, inappropriately thrilling. He was all creamy pale skin and sharp angles, slim and wiry. John’s eyes lingered (far too long, he knew, damn it) on the flat planes of Sherlock’s belly -- a delicate line of fine dark hair trailing down between his narrow hips and -- _oh_.   
  
Sherlock’s slight cough of amusement alerted John to the fact that he had now been openly staring at his flatmate for several seconds. He was also uncomfortably aware that his mouth was still hanging open a bit, and his trousers were growing a bit too tight for comfort across the front.  
  
Now, _that_ was certainly a bit unexpected.  
  
John noted that Sherlock seemed almost… pleased? Smug, at the very least. _The git._   
  
By the time John had even begun to fumble about for words -- any words -- Sherlock had flounced (again with the flouncing!) across the room and busied himself within the tea cupboard.   
  
John couldn’t help but grin; every cup and saucer in the flat --  even the teakettle -- was heaped in a massive and dirty pile atop the kitchen counter. The cupboard that Sherlock had half his upper body inside was absolutely barren; and the utter forlornness that radiated from his lanky silhouette as he emerged with a single bent spoon in hand was...   
  
Charming.   
  
The word floated to the surface of John’s mind, unbidden. It seemed like the least likely word to be used when describing Sherlock; prickly, arrogant, sarcastic, capricious Sherlock.   
  
But he truly was. John stepped closer without really intending to; he watched as Sherlock wavered in front of the cupboard, obviously struggling to decide his next course of action. This Sherlock was more unfamiliar to John; indecisive, petulant, awkward.   
  
_Oscillation on the pavement always means there is a love affair._   
  
Sherlock had said that himself once, hadn’t he? John hadn’t the foggiest why that sprang to mind. Or why he felt so uncomfortable upon thinking it.   
  
The more pressing matter was something entirely different, anyway. The odd text exchange from earlier was very much on John’s mind; and he knew he was just tipsy enough to perhaps not handle the matter with much delicacy.   
  
Why on earth was Sherlock so interested in the subject of John’s tattoos? He was right, of course, as was the case nearly every time. John was in possession of inkwork, true enough; and had never mentioned nor shown any of it to Sherlock in their time as flatmates.   
  
_Damn_ it, though. For all this sudden curiosity and indignation, Sherlock had never asked him! They’d shared a flat for some time, now; if Sherlock was so anxious to know, why had he waited until now? Clearly, Sherlock was the i _nsensitive_ one; he, John, had every right to be a bit tetchy.  
  
There was certainly one way to settle the matter, John hazily reckoned.   
  
He pushed away from the doorframe in which he’d been leaning, grasping the hem of his jumper with both hands. In one swift motion, John pulled the jumper over his head, inwardly pleased that he’d managed it with such little difficulty.   
  
It was almost if, in the next few moments, John was watching his own actions from a distant place, somewhere within his own head. This was treading very close to uncharted territory for him.   
  
He tossed the jumper at Sherlock’s feet, his now-bare torso prickling slightly with both chill and anticipation. John dimly wondered what he really expected to accomplish with this; Sherlock was already in one of his moods, as it was.   
  
“Here. Happy now?”   
  
John found himself delighted -- unabashedly, unexpectedly, and unequivocally delighted -- at the expression on Sherlock’s face as he turned to face him. Sherlock’s eyes -- the colour of which John had yet to find words to describe accurately -- were the only motion John could see. Otherwise, he was unnaturally still; his eyes roaming across John’s exposed torso from top to bottom with a fierce deliberation. Sherlock was unmistakably flushed; his lips slightly parted and his breath coming fast and shallow.   
  
John wondered, for what would not be the last time, if perhaps he’d bitten off a bit more than he could chew with this one.  
  
_Ah, hell._ He wasn’t a cat. He could handle whatever his curiosity had stirred up… couldn’t he?  
  
*****   
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're off! I've been a bit sidetracked by finals and summer work, but I've gotten to a place where I do hope I can devote a bit more time to writing. Enjoy!


End file.
